The lawn rolled back like a rug
in thick jellyrolls of sod
to be rolled back, flat again
as if nothing had happened.
What happened was dust, sealing
off one more job. I tell you,
there's no getting rid of it.
Beat your carpet back to thread.
Mop a floor, wash rocks. It waits
pale and timid lullabyes

of fluff collecting themselves
in the dark, under your bed,
along baseboards. Bits of you,
yes, your skin, your hair, making
wee dollies with your name stored
in the sweeper bag, starting
another each time you throw
one out. Behind you, listen
linty breath. There's no escape.
Fly to Rio, book a cruise.

Dust follows. No, no, you say.Tonight belongs to thunder,
to rain sloshing in, blinding
as car wash. Tomorrow's sun
promising a clean green world
bright as varnished lettuce. Oh?
Will it pass the white-glove test?
There's reason for the shiver
down the horse's rump. Slap it.
Watch the dust rise. See him run.